


If Only

by delphia2000



Category: Kung Fu: The Legend Continues
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 02:57:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delphia2000/pseuds/delphia2000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU story about how things might have been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Only

Act 1

It was the last place he expected to find his foster father.

"Paul?"

Captain Blaisdell looked over his shoulder at his son. "Finished with IA so soon?" he asked.

Peter nodded and moved to stand next to him. "It was a righteous shooting. They said I'd probably get my gun back right after the 3 day waiting period. The Chief said you were down here."

Blaisdell didn't comment, only looked sober as he gazed down at the corpse on the gurney. The police morgue was a cold and stark place, making best use of a small space with limited resources.

"We're ready any time, sir," urged a gentle voice from behind them.

Peter turned to see a tall dark man in a black suit, flanked by two shorter, but similarly dressed men. He hadn't heard their approach in spite of the empty hall that generally echoed every move in its narrow confines. They looked enough alike to be brothers or perhaps father and sons. Paul sighed as he drew the sheet back over the corpse's face and then signaled to the waiting men. "I'll be over later to finish the paperwork," he told them as they prepared to move the body.

At Peter's look, Paul explained, "I've arranged to have his body returned to his family."

"You knew him?"

Paul nodded. "Former….co-worker."

"I had no idea. I'm sorry, but he didn't give me any choice, Paul."

"It's okay, son. He wasn't the kind of man who would have given you a choice. Or a chance either, not if he could help it. He was careful and exacting. I'm only surprised he finally slipped up, and sorry it had to be you."

The morticians carefully moved the gurney out to the freight lift as Paul turned away and headed towards the main elevator. Peter hesitated, not sure if he should pursue the conversation, but curiosity got the better of him. Paul so rarely talked about his former line of work.

"As far as we could tell from what we found in his room, he's been doing this vigilante work for some time. I almost think he should have been given a medal for all the pushers, pimps and drug lords he's taken out of circulation. Not that I'd ever condone murder," Peter added hastily.

"I tried once to get him to work on our side," Paul offered, "but he turned me down. Told me he thought he could personally deliver more justice than our flawed system. He had a clear vision of what was right and what was wrong; would have been a good cop. Unfortunately, he also had a deep need for vengeance that took him outside the rules."

"He was good with that gun. Almost too good. You weren't the one who taught him to shoot like that, were you?" Peter probed casually.

Paul stopped to press the call button, and calmly surveyed his son as he waited for the elevator and his son waited for an answer. "We both have to get back to the work," he pointed out, "And even though these surroundings might be appropriate, how about we continue this conversation at Chandlers this evening? If you don't have a date, that is," Paul smiled.

"You see way too much. Whose paranoid idea was it to design an office with a window that looks inside instead of outside?" Peter complained.

The elevator arrived and both entered. Peter pushed the up button as he mentioned a time to meet. He felt a twinge of nervous excitement ripple through him, marking the occasion. Paul was treating him like the adult they both knew he was, as if they'd moved from a father/son relationship to that of comrades in the blink of an eye. Or, in this case, in the time it took a man to breathe his last breath.

 

Act 2

Chandler's was noisy as usual, with the most touted game of the day blaring on the television for the gathered sports fans. Fortunately, smoking in public places was outlawed or Peter would have never been able to spot his foster father in the crush. As it was, the carelessly handled beers and gesticulating arms as the fans armchair-quarterbacked the game was enough of an obstacle course. Peter wound thru the throng to the back of the room where Paul sat at a shadowed table with two small glasses of scotch in front of him.

"Dad."

Paul nodded as Peter sat down and pushed one of the glasses to him. "Ah, I don't drink scotch," he hesitantly reminded his father.

"You do tonight. This is a drink for deep discussions and moments of importance. Beers are for good times and gin, well, that's for the ladies. Men drink scotch. Especially when they want to talk about old times."

Peter accepted the implied challenge and took a sip. It burned pleasantly. This wasn't the stuff from the rack above the bar. It had to be the good stuff they kept under the bar for special customers; customers like Paul.

"I need to tell you right up front that there are still some things I can't tell you, son. It's not because I don't think you can handle it. In some cases, it's just too dangerous for you to know. Or because it's still classified and I'm not at liberty to tell you. And, in some cases, it's because I really don't know myself."

"Paul…Dad, it's not 'things' I want to know, or history. I just want to know you. I've heard…things. Things I don't believe or at least, I don't want to believe. But I just don't want to…I don't know…I don't want to feel like I don't know who you really are. This sounds lame…I know I'm not saying it right," Peter apologized.

"It's okay. You don't think I haven't heard those rumors too? Some people like to tell you things just for effect. I can say that probably half of what you have heard is true. What I was, is what I am. I haven't changed, Peter. I still like to think I work for the good guys. Of course I've done things I'm not proud of; things I regret and would give anything if I could go back and change history. But I can't. Know this. What ever I have done, it's always been for the good and with good intentions. Yes, I took money and made a living at waging war. But I didn't work for the side that could pay me best."

"Why did you stop working for the military?"

"That's not easy to sum up in a single sentence. It was many reasons, all far too complicated. I think now that it came down to that idea of doing good, for the most, not for just a privileged few. Our country's foreign policies have a habit of changing with the whims of whoever is in power at the time. That's a very poor system in my book."

"So this is why you've always tried to stay out of politics, even now?"

Paul nodded as he lifted his glass. Peter took another sip of his scotch. He still didn't like it, but perhaps by the time he finished it, it might appeal to him more, he thought, savoring the smoky aftertaste. It had definite possibilities and maybe Paul had enough scotch in him to answer a tougher question. "Would you mind telling me about this man I killed?"

"I don't know as much as I would have liked to," Paul sighed. "He liked being mysterious. Didn't talk much about his background, even to me."

"Married? Kids?"

"Married at least once. No kids that I knew of. Now, I don't know. I hadn't heard from him in some time."

"If you had, you might have heard things you didn't want to," Peter suggested.

"True."

"This drug dealer he killed…the guy was small potatoes. It wasn't his usual from what I read in the FBI file. It doesn't figure."

"That was personal. In some way, I think that's why he let you take him down rather than face the consequences. He finally finished what he really set out to do."

"Am I late?" interrupted a somewhat familiar voice.

The man who slid into the seat next to Paul was one of Peter's co-workers, but he barely knew the man, only recognizing him from the bad suit he habitually wore. "Right on time. I was just starting to tell Peter about him. I think you might know some better stories though."

Peter was stunned for a second. "You worked with Paul….?" he managed to gasp.

"What's the matter, kid? I don't look like a merc?"

Peter shook his head. This was going to be an interesting evening. He waved to the server. "We need another scotch over here."

 

Act 3

Fathom and Sons Funeral Home was a dignified little building on the edge of Chinatown, equally able to provide Christian as well as Buddhist ceremonies. After parking in the side lot, next to a hearse, Peter took the box of personal effects he'd picked up from the lock-up at work and carried them inside. Paul was waiting just inside the foyer. The home was neatly decorated with a dignified mix of traditional and Oriental objects and flowers abounded, their scent masking the odor he'd come to associate with death.

"Thanks, Peter. I appreciate this," Paul told him as he set the box down on a chair seat. Paul opened the box and searched for a minute before selecting an item. Then he closed the box and handed it to a waiting attendant. "Could you please see that this is also shipped with the body?" he requested.

The man nodded and gestured towards a nearby alcove. "He's ready for your final goodbye, sir."

Paul sighed and turned to Peter. "Would you like to come in too? He would have understood you were just doing your job."

Peter nodded and followed his foster father into the chilly parlor. A small spray of flowers decorated the coffin and Peter knew it was from Paul. Otherwise, the only other living occupant was the man who had joined them at the bar last night.

"Did you find it?" he asked.

Paul nodded and passed the item to him. The man smiled a bit as he tucked it into the corpse's suit pocket. "He was never without that picture of his wife," he commented.

Then he pulled a pair of sunglasses from his own suit pocket and slipped them on. He usually wore them at work as if hiding from his co-workers, but always took them off when he was alone with Paul. "I'll be seeing you, Blake," he commented as he patted the body and then strode out.

"No offense, Paul, but Kermit is really strange," Peter commented as he watched the man leave.

Paul smiled a bit. "But he's a good man to have at your back. So was Shaky."

"Shaky?"

"Shaky Blake. We called him that because of all the coffee he drank."

"He managed to shoot straight enough."

"That he did. Like I said, he would have made a good cop. If only…"

The End.


End file.
